


never take the day for granted

by kirjaviafterdark (Kirjavi)



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Lesbian Sex, Vaginal Fingering, an au where hurley just fucking fingerblasts the gaia sash right of of sloane's gay brain, it's what griffin mcelroy lesbian icon would have wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15887151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirjavi/pseuds/kirjaviafterdark
Summary: Hurley knows Sloane can be single-minded sometimes. She has seen her at her best (laughing, eyes bright through the feathered mask, teeth shining in a glorious smile and hand tightly gripping hers) and at her worst (greasy, unwashed hair sticking up from frustrated fingers running through it, sheets of engine schematics scribbled out, dark circles and tired hands), but this is nothing like she had ever seen before.She hasn’t come to their bed in weeks.





	never take the day for granted

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I haven't listened to all of TAZ Balance yet (I'm halfway through the suffering game and I'm In Pain) but this idea forcefully shoved itself into my brain and I had no peace until I wrote it. Title from "The Gambler" by fun.
> 
> (please don't tell any of them good good mcelboys about this I am begging you on my knees)
> 
> Edit 12/15/18: I used the wrong form of "there" and I'm mortified.

Hurley knows Sloane can be single-minded sometimes. She has seen her stay up late at the garage too many times to count, trying to make that one tiny adjustment to make the battle wagon purr like a satisfied cat or puzzle out that one maneuver to gain that lead out on the track. Hurley has seen her at her best (laughing, eyes bright through the feathered mask, teeth shining in a glorious smile and hand tightly gripping hers) and at her worst (greasy, unwashed hair sticking up from frustrated fingers running through it, sheets of engine schematics scribbled out, dark circles and tired hands), but this is nothing like she had ever seen before.

Sloane is manic, or verging on it. She doesn’t just stay up late, but pulls all-nighters that stretch far into the next day and seems no worse for it. She has become almost obsessive– nothing seems to hold her attention anymore except for racing and all of the distractions that come with it.

She hasn’t come to their bed in weeks.

Hurley isn’t an idiot. She’s the lieutenant of the Goldcliff militia and she hasn’t made it that high up by looking pretty(although she has pretty in spades). Something’s wrong here, and it’s not the kind of problem that typical lovers’ quarrels entail. Sloane isn’t usually like this, manic and frenzied, with no time for a halfling woman with her heart burning in her eyes for her.

The tipping point comes comes on the racetrack, when a boarder makes the jump onto their wagon. Without even hesitating, Sloane throws the battle wagon into a sharp turn and the boarder goes flying off. The safety harness deploys, but they hit the ground hard before making their limping way to the side of the road.

Sloane guns the engine and they take first place. The roar of the crowds is deafening.

The moment they pull back into the garage Hurley rips off her mask and throws it to the ground. “How could you do that?”

Sloane gives her that look, the one that slides condescendingly down her nose and makes Hurley acutely aware of every single inch of height Sloane has on her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hurley rakes her fingers through her hair, smearing engine grease and road dust into the tightly-wound curls. “You--that boarder--they–”

Sloane just waits, doesn’t even say anything. Her eyes are impassive behind the mask. Hurley hates that more than she hates her condescension.

“They almost died, Sloane.” Her voice doesn’t break, and she’s proud of that, at least. “You almost killed that boarder and you didn’t even flinch. No killing, remember? You--you–” She doesn’t even know how to finish. Her voice finally gives out. “I don’t know who you are anymore,” she finishes quietly. She doesn’t even want to meet her eyes. She’s afraid of what emotion (or lack thereof) she’ll find.

Icy hands (absolutely frigid, and Sloane _never_ runs cold) tip her chin up and she reluctantly meets her eyes. They flicker blue--a far cry from the warm brown they should be–and she says in a low, cold voice, “You know who I am, Hurley.” The blue leaches out of her eyes, leaving that familiar brown, and Sloane smiles. “I’m the Raven, silly,” she says with an echo of her old warmth.

Hurley smiles back, but it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

* * *

Later that night, Sloane comes to their bed for the first time in ages. “Hurley,” she says quietly. Her low volume belies the excitement in her voice. “Hurley, come see this.”

Hurley stirs, half-awake, and slits her eyes open in the predawn darkness. Sloane smells like engine grease and dirt and she sleepily leans into her hand as she shakes her awake. “Hmmmmwha?” she says.

“Come see this,” Sloane says again and tugs her up out of bed. “I think you’ll love it.”

She leads her down the rickety stairs to the garage beneath their rooms, Hurley clutching her too-cold hand. “What is it?” she asks as Sloane opens the door leading to the garage. Sloane just smiles at her mysteriously, playfully, and Hurley could swear blue sparks across her eyes again.

She watches, wide awake by now, as Sloane runs down the stairs ahead of her and throws open the hood of the wagon. “Look!” she says, grinning like a kid on Candlenights.

Hurley pads over, feet quiet over the cement, and peers under the hood. Her eyes widen.

This is Sloane’s best work yet. Glimmering traces of magic blend seamlessly into the welding joins and delicately placed screws, and Hurley even sees traces of enchanted vines laced in between the machinery, no doubt aiding in recovery time and efficiency. The only empty space she can see is a cube-shaped hole in the center of the engine. She shuts the hood gently and looks up at Sloane. “Sloane,” she says slowly, and she can feel a smile creeping across her face. “This is incredible. Is this what you’ve been staying up late doing?”

Sloane squeals in excitement--as good a confirmation as any--and picks Hurley up, spinning her around in a circle. Her excitement is contagious and Hurley finds herself laughing too, falling in love with the shining brightness of her face all over again. “I’m a genius,” she laughs giddily as she sets Hurley down on the hood. “We’re gonna be unstoppable,” she says.

Despite the recent past, Hurley can’t help but let her love pour out of her smile. “Unstoppable, huh?” she says. “I like the sound of that.”

Sloane leans down and kisses her fiercely, fingers curling possessively over her hips. “Me too,” she murmurs, and a long-neglected part of Hurley abruptly throbs to life. She parts her lips daringly and Sloane takes the invitation she’d been ignoring for so long, licking gently into her mouth as her hands climb higher to her chest.

“Come up here, hmm?” Hurley says through the kisses Sloane scatters across her face. “I’ve missed you through all those long nights.”

Sloane obeys readily for once in her life and hops easily up on the hood of the wagon. She bends her face down towards Hurley and she nuzzles at the soft skin of her neck before kissing it.

“I want to show you something,” Sloane murmurs. Hurley leans back, intrigued, as she sees Sloane begin to pick at the fastenings holding her loose robe together.

“Hate to spoil the surprise, babe, but I think I’ve seen everything under there before,” she quips.

Sloane rolls her eyes, smiling a little, and undos the ribbon ties. Shockingly quickly, she is bare under the dim light of the garage but for a single brown sash tied around her waist.

She never fails to take Hurley’s breath away, no matter how many times she’s seen her. Her long, lithe body gracefully curves from hip to waist to breast in a line her tongue longs to trace. Her dark nipples are peaked prettily in the slight chill and the expanse of smooth brown skin makes Hurley’s fingers itch to run across it. “What did you want to show me?” she asks. Her voice is husky with lust.

Sloane leans back against the windshield and beckons Hurley up to her. She slides a finger under the taut sash and parts her legs. She glistens slightly and Hurley would be damned if it isn’t the prettiest sight she’s ever seen.

Hurley leans up and kisses her, sliding a thigh in between her legs. “Is that it? A pretty piece of fabric?”

Sloane moans and grinds down on Hurley’s clothed leg. The dampness of her arousal seeps through even the cloth and Hurley presses harder, giving her something to rub against. “It’s more than that,” she says through a sigh. “It’s power.

“Power, hmm?” Hurley pays Sloane little mind, focusing more on the delightful noises she makes when she drags the calloused end of her thumb over her clit just the right way. Sloane has a tendency to ramble while she’s in the throes of passion, and she’s learned which ones mean she’s doing something right and which ones mean her mind is elsewhere.

“Mmhmm,” she gasps, then “fingers. Please.”

“Tell me more about this sash,” Hurley says absently, slipping her into her wet cunt and marveling, as she always does, at how she seems to grip around her finger and suck her in. Her own cunt throbs with arousal but she pushes it aside, focusing on showing Sloane exactly how much she’s missed her over the past few weeks.

“It can--oh, Hurley, right there--it can create green out of nothing, summon storms like– oh _fuck_ me--with it we’re unstoppable--fucking _hell_ , give me more!”

Hurley slips another finger in, searching for that sweet spot that turns sentence fragments into incoherency, and finds it when Sloane’s legs snap shut around her waist and her words peter off into the softest, neediest whine she’s ever heard. “Unstoppable,” she says and kisses her heaving chest. “You like that a lot, I think.”

She begins fucking her in earnest, then, pumping her fingers unrelentingly against that sweet spot and grinding the heel of her palm into her clit. Sloane begins babbling, the elegant length of her neck thrown back in ecstasy and her hips working on their own, fucking down onto her fingers.

“Fuck, you feel so good in me,” she is gasping. “Fuck the sash, god Hurley _please_ , fuck the sash and fuck your weird whispering voice, god _damn_ it Hurley, _more_ –”

Hurley liked it a bit more when she was babbling about how good her fingers felt in her rather than weird whispering voices, but she keeps going, bracing herself above her and sucking marks into her skin while her hand continues to work. She lets up only when she can feel her cunt spasm around her fingers and Sloane’s words turn into a slow, luxurious moan as she hits her peak. She rocks her through the ebbing waves of pleasure and slowly, gently slips her fingers out. She wipes them off as best she can on her pants and crawls up to lean next to her against the windshield.

“You good, babe?” she says. “It sounded like I lost you for a bit there. Something about that sash?”

Sloane nuzzles her face into the place where Hurley’s neck slopes into her shoulder and shakes her head. “Fuck that,” she says, muffled, and rips off the sash. “We’re a fucking force of nature even without the sash.”

Hurley takes that in stride, content enough to ask about it in the morning. “Fucking force of nature, indeed,” she says, and laughs when Sloane pokes her in the side for the terrible joke.

“Now,” Sloane says, and shifts so that she’s leaning over Hurley. Her hands begin to creep up under Hurley’s loose-fitting shirt and Hurley shivers in anticipation. “I think we should pick up where we left off.”

Later, when Hurley is out of breath and still shaky from a series of orgasms that left her legs like jelly, Sloane leans back next to her and says conversationally, “Babe, you would not _believe_ the month I just had.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in three horny, horny hours instead of packing for college and I don't. Regret a thing.  
> Scream about fantasy lesbians with me at a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com.


End file.
